George Eliot prayed that she reach
the purest heaven;
be the cup of strength to those in agony.
I cannot seem to save myself.
I pray only to survive while
grasping at the crumbling edges
of a giant hole into which I fall.
I cannot seem to save myself.
I try to smile, try to join in,
feed pure love, ignore the vile,
turn the world back to being kind.
I cannot seem to find the time.
What sweet luxury Channing had,
to advise we “bear all cheerfully,
await occasions, hurry never.”
I cannot seem to find the time.
I don’t want to live in a world
where immigrants are not respected
or given dignity.
And yet it seems I do.
I don’t want to live in a world
where women bleed out in cars because
craven doctors betray oaths to care for us.
And yet it seems I do.
Better Buddhist than bleary-eyed,
refusing the light that drives me on
to cry for help as we drown.
I cannot seem to find the light.
I try the common, I try the quiet,
I try to listen then to sing,
but stars refuse to shine on me.
I cannot seem to find the light.